My blind spot

Today was the all district professional development for the school district where I work.  The schedule said we would all meet in the auditorium for the morning to hear the keynote speaker.  Can you hear everyone's eyes rolling?  Whispers of "bring something to work on?" 

This was not that kind of keynote speaker.

Dr. Campbell was there to discuss something that we wanted to know.  How do we change the way we teach and lead to increase belonging (and test scores and graduation rates, etc) among our incredibly diverse school district (with a not so diverse faculty)?  The answer, of course, is a lot of hard work and soul searching.  Specific strategies include giving scholars a voice, using many different cultural references in the examples, questions, videos and books use in class, eliminating micro aggressions and normalizing conversations about race.

In Isabel Wilkerson's book, Caste: The Origins of Our Discontent, she compares the systems (including schools) in America to an old house.  There are always things that need to be fixed.  These needed repairs do not make the house useless, but they have to be done.  The longer the owners look away and pretend they aren't there, the more difficult they will be to fix later.  You didn't build the house, but you are living in it now.  What are you going to do about it?

For the last 50 years white people have been so busy saying that we weren't the ones who kept slaves, we weren't the ones who enacted Jim Crow laws, we've never burned a cross on anyone's lawn, why is it our problem?  It is time for us to acknowledge that we live in a house that needs some remodeling.  We weren't the ones who built it, but if we want to live in a nice house we have to accept the responsibility of making the repairs.

Toward the end of the presentation Dr. Campbell asked us to consider the way we were raised and what blind spots we may have as a result.  

As I listened to other participants share their blind spots I received inspiration for me.  As a white girl raised in a white conservative Christian bubble I was told over and over again that I was supposed to be an example for everyone else.  I was told that everyone was watching me to see what I would do.  Would I live the way I professed to believe?  There is doctrinal president for this.  Jesus said that his disciples should be a light on a hill for all the world to see.  He said that we should be the salt of the earth.  Paul admonished Timothy to "Be an example of the believers, in word and deed and conversation."  I was told endless stories of people who judged the church, for good or bad, based on one action of one person.  I internalized that to mean that the salvations of everyone I ever interacted with were somehow hanging on my perfect example.   It created anxiety and a twisted kind of belief that I should be able to be perfect.  That's a lot of stress for a kid, or anyone else, to carry around.  It leads to perfectionism which ultimately leads to self-condemnation because it is impossible to live up to such a standard.  There is doctrine here too.  Each person has their own agency.  Ultimately, everyone is responsible for their own decision whether to accept Jesus Christ or not.  We may help or hinder but we don't save or condemn anyone.  

How many of us educators went into our profession with the desire to save someone?  We tell stories of the teachers who inspired us when we were discouraged; the teachers who gave us a safe place when our homes didn't feel safe; the teachers who opened our eyes to our own potentials and introduced us to our passions.  We want to help.  We want to serve.  We want to give back what was given to us.  And we want to be remembered.  We also kind of want to be heroes.  This is a very general blanket statement and certainly doesn't apply to all education workers, but it's not uncommon either.  It's a special sort of pride that implies that I am somehow better; that if you will just let me show you a better way then you can be good like me.  From a Christian perspective this ends up looking a lot like self worship.  I can't save anyone, only Jesus can do that.  In fact, he already has.  He has already suffered the pains, sicknesses, unfairness, sin, everything for everyone of those kids.  They do not need fixing.  They are not broken.  They need to be heard, loved, taught, and respected just the way they are, because they are children of God, the same as us. Those are things that we, as educators (and parents), can and must do. 

Wisdom

 Last night I had a beautiful conversation with my daughter.  School starts tomorrow.  She's a senior and very nervous.  This is the wisdom she shared with me. "Social anxiety is a form of pride."  Wow!  That is kind of harsh, but so true.  What is the root of social anxiety?  Fear of looking stupid in front of other people.  Fear that someone might see you as less than perfect.  What right do we have to expect ourselves to be perfect?  Would we cast the same judgment on others that we cast on ourselves?  I guess sometimes we do, but that is pride too.  Perfection is in this same category.  We expect ourselves to be perfect all the time?  What kind of ridiculousness is that?  Only Jesus is perfect.  Only Jesus can make us perfect.  To imagine that I can make myself perfect is a form of self worship, idolatry.  Mistakes are part of the plan.  There is no salvation without the humility that says, "I make mistakes and that's ok.  It doesn't change my value and it doesn't disqualify me for love or salvation.  And I extend that same grace to everyone else too."

Take a risk.  Try something you know you might be really bad at.  Apologize when necessary and stop apologizing when it isn't.  Don't make excuses.  Learn to be comfortable with discomfort.  Be brave.  There is no courage without fear.  Fear and worry are not enemies to be avoided.  They are companions who remind us to be kind to the child in side us and and everyone else.  Mistakes are part of the plan.  Learn from them.  Work to correct them.  Offer love and grace, no matter what.

Learning About Racism Reading List

In the spring of 2020 I finally figured out that I could not just feel bad about racism any longer and I started reading:

The New Jim Crow, by Michelle Alexander

The Color of Compromise, by Jemar Tisby discusses the American Christian church's complicity in racism and suggests ways to combat it.

All American Boys, by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely is a novel written from the perspective of two high school boys, one white and one black, and their experiences with police violence.

Becoming, by Michelle Obama

They Called Us Enemy, by George Takie and friends is a graphic novel about George's experience as a child in the Japanese internment camps during World War II.

How to be an Anti-Racist, by Ibram X. Kendi

Stamped: Racism, Anti-racism and You, by Ibram X. Kendi and Jason Reynolds, is "not" a history book about racism in America.

White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, by Robin DiAngelo, is about how many white people see racism as the horrific things bad people do and unintentionally perpetuate racism through our fear of the word.

Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents, by Octavia Buttler, novels set in a dystopian society with a young black woman as the main protagonist.

And listening:

Code Switch with Shereen Marisol Meraji and Gene Demby, NPR

How to Citizen with Baratunde

To Read:

Courageous Conversations About Race by Glenn E Singleton, specifically written with educators in mind

Caste: The Origins of Our Discontent by Isabel Wilkerson "Ignorance is no protection from the consequences of inaction."

Ike

 This story is as I remember my dad telling it to me on a bench by the Weber River walking path, summer 2019.  There were piles of cottonwood fluff everywhere.  Dad mentioned that it was super flammable.  I hadn't known that before.  My family was in Utah for a visit and some of my kids and I were walking with dad.  He had brain cancer but was doing pretty good, considering.  He walked slowly and needed to rest occasionally.  When we sat to rest I asked him to tell my kids about his dog, Ike.

My grandmother's aunt, Eva Willes Wangsgard, lived around the corner from where my dad grew up.  She was a poet with several published volumes and her name is listed among Utah poets of her time.  Eva also enjoyed entering contests.  In the 1950s and 60s it was common for newspapers and magazines to invite readers to submit entries for photo captions, jingles, poems, all sorts of things.  Prizes ranged from a basketball to large amounts of cash.  There was one common rule, only one entry per person.  This did not get in the way for Aunt Eva.  She would enter the contest as many times as she had nieces and nephews whose names she could borrow.  The family rule was that if the entry with your name on it won you could keep any prizes, but you had to split the money with Aunt Eva.

In the spring of 1955 "dad" submitted the winning entry to name a cartoon dog, he was 7.  The name Aunt Eva had submitted with dad's name on it was Bernard MuttSadden.  (This was a play on the name of Bernarr McFadden, a publisher and influencer in the areas of health and physical fitness.)  The prize was cash and a beagle. Dad had to go up on stage to receive the award.  He recalled his mother coaching him on what to say and "helping him remember" how he came up with the clever name.  

Dad liked Ike, but he wasn't too keen on taking care of him.  All the neighborhood kids liked to come over and play with Ike and apparently he was a good natured dog, but one day dad noticed that he was gone.  He figured he had run away and no-one ever said otherwise.

In October of 1999 my grandma passed away.  The family gathered in her home after the funeral and told the stories that reminded us of her.  Aunt Janet, my dad's older sister, mentioned Ike.  She looked a little nervous, but said that now that grandma was gone it was probably safe to finally tell dad the truth.  Grandma had gotten tired of taking care of Ike when dad didn't seem to care at all.  She found him a new home and gave him away.  About a week later dad noticed that Ike was gone and grandma told him he had run away.  Grandma had sworn Janet to secrecy for fear that dad would be angry and she carried that secret for over 40 years.  It might seam wrong to laugh that hard the day of your grandma's funeral but it was just what we all needed.  It was so like her, so funny, such a perfect finale.  

I sure miss grandma, and dad.  I wish I'd had a chance to know my great, great aunt Eva.

And remember, never give a pet to a child as a gift or a prize.